Close
by junkerey
Summary: Miles' sister Millie visits him after he is injured at the studio.


"_**Murphy Brown: Close"**_

By M.L. Zambrana

_"LOOK OUT!"_

Miles Silverberg turned around, his headset in one hand and the news program's shooting script in the other. Surprised by the sudden shout of the security guard who stood near the edge of the "FYI" set, he watched in shock as a tall, heavyset man with glasses dashed across the floor. The man's dark eyes glittered with cold desperation as he headed straight for Murphy Brown, a large hunting knife clutched in his left hand.

The rest of the crew stood and stared in shock and disbelief as the strange man, followed closely by the security guard, rushed towards the gray news desk. Filming had concluded only a minute before and everyone had begun to disperse; only Miles and Murphy remained on the set itself. Nobody stood between the knife-wielding intruder and Murphy Brown except for Miles.

Miles saw in an instant that the guard trailed too far behind the crazed man to stop him, and his protective instincts towards his co-worker kicked in. Before any rational fear could take hold of his mind and freeze him in place, Miles took three quick steps forward and locked his hands around the left wrist of the man (in doing so, he noted with some alarm that his head only came up to the guy's shoulders). He hooked his foot around the man's ankle at the same time and effectively tripped him, but then a heavy arm wrapped around his neck and he fell to the ground as well.

Several pains overwhelmed Miles at once. He felt pain from his right shoulder as he hit the concrete floor, the kick of the man's knee against his shin, the strain of muscles and tendons in his ankle as his foot twisted to one side… and then a pressure-filled, burning sensation across his abdomen that erased everything else. He screamed out in shock and agony, barely aware that by that time, the guard and a couple of stagehands had made it to him and had begun to subdue the attacker. Freed from the tangle of bodies, Miles wrapped his hands around his midsection and rolled onto his side.

Just before he passed out, Miles realized that his fingers felt very warm.

Although Murphy Brown maintained a confident, professional attitude throughout her conversations with various police officers, detectives and hospital staff about what happened, the sight of a pale, motionless Miles Silverberg stretched out on the hospital bed pulled away her bravado in an instant.

Murphy's emotions threatened to escape her as she stood in the doorway and looked at him, and she had to force herself to stop and pull in several long, slow breaths. She wouldn't stand for any melodramatic bedside crying scenes any more than Miles would, and she put the expression that she'd worn all evening—one of stoic determination.

With a light push, Murphy shut the hospital room door behind her and stepped towards the prone form of her friend. Her high heels on the tile floor echoed around the room, and the familiar sound caused Miles to stir. He opened his eyes and blinked a few times.

"Hey, Murphy." Miles reached up with his I.V.-laden left hand to rub at his face. "Wow. I must've dozed off." He lowered his hand with a wince. "Good drugs," he joked.

Murphy pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down. "I'll bet," she replied with a tight smile. "How about you share 'em next time, huh?"

Miles looked down and checked to make sure that he hadn't twisted the plastic tubing with his movements, then he glanced over at his friend with obvious gratitude.

"Thanks for coming to see me. It's been a long day and you probably just want to go home. I know that I sure do."

"Yea. Well, I had to come. After all, you're my hero now." Murphy reached up and brushed one hand against his dark hair—a quiet, simple gesture that brought a comfortable smile to Miles' face.

"Are you doing all right?" he asked.

"Are you?" she countered as she brought her hand back down to her lap.

Miles nodded, his expression sober. Murphy didn't know that beneath the thin hospital sheet lay a lot more damage than the knife wound. A nurse had secured his badly-sprained left ankle in a solid plastic brace, and a large gauze bandage, wrapped numerous times around his torso, kept his right shoulder close to his body; the initial fall to the ground, coupled with the weight of the man n top of him, had done a decent amount of damage. Both injuries meant that he'd have to stay in bed and would be unable to use crutches. Large bruises peppered his skin in several areas, and a mild concussion topped off the rest of the unseen damage. All that, aside from the two hours that Miles spent in surgery to close the knife damage done to his belly.

"I've certainly been better," he replied in a neutral tone. "How about you?"

She took in a breath. "A little scared, that's all. We all are. Security has been doubled for the next two weeks, and maybe longer. They're worried about a copycat trying the same thing."

He pursed his lips. "Oh, please. Someone's just looking to cover their ass. A little late for that, huh?"

"Yea," she said with a quick laugh. "I agree."

The two of them fell silent and stared at one another for a long time before Murphy spoke again.

"It's good to know that you'll be all right, Miles," she told him. "I—"

"Miles?"

Miles Silverberg and Murphy Brown glanced towards the hospital room door as a concerned, nervous voice interrupted their conversation.

A dark-haired woman stood with one hand against the doorframe for support, her gaze riveted on Miles. He took in a quick breath, and Murphy glanced between the two of them in honest surprise. She couldn't help but notice that the woman's hair, the shape of her face and the style of her light brown suit appeared to be a perfect feminine reflection of Miles.

"Oh, my God," Murphy breathed.

The woman rushed forward, then stopped a foot away from the bed and knelt down, one hand on Miles' shoulder and her gaze firmly fixed on his face. She remained motionless for a moment, then tilted her head and sighed.

"You're all right, then?" she asked with a quick nod of her head.

Miles nodded, a blank expression on his face. "Yea, I'm... I'm fine. I'll be fine."

She blinked, paused, and then asked, "What happened?"

Miles' tense expression eased, and he placed one hand on his stomach. "There was a little skirmish at the studio. Some nut showed up with a knife-" Miles shook his head. "I'm sorry. I should've known that you'd—"

The woman muttered something to Miles, but Murphy couldn't seem to make out the words in her speech. It sounded like a series of childlike gurgles and mumblings, the same types of sounds that Murphy's son often made, but with the last word raised at the end... as if she'd asked a question.

Miles responded with the same babbling baby talk, and Murphy sat back in her chair and crossed her arms, confused. The strange, almost wordless conversation between the woman and Miles continued for another minute until Miles began to laugh. At that point, unable to stand the mystery of the situation any more, Murphy held up her thin hands.

"Whoa! Hold on a second, here. Did I just step into the Twilight Zone? What is this? I don't understand a word you two are saying."

"Oh, I'm sorry." The woman cleared her throat. "It's called 'twin speech.' It's kind of a language of our own."

Miles cleared his throat, the sound a perfect match to the one that the woman had uttered. "Murphy," he said in a soft voice, "this is Millie. Millie Perkins."

The woman slid down onto the edge of the bed and took Miles' hand. "No, it's Silverberg again. Things, ah… things didn't work out."

Murphy let out a surprise laugh. "It came as a shock to everyone that you had a brother, Miles! And you never even mention your parents. Now you're telling me that you've got a sister—and a twin, at that!" She shook her head in amused disbelief. "Got any other surprise relatives in your closet that I should know about?"

"No," he replied in an exasperated tone.

Millie smiled. "So you don't mention Mom and Dad either, huh?" Her smile faltered. "Or me?"

Miles looked away from her and sighed. "Look, it's been a really tough week, and I'd just as soon not drag all this up right now." He glanced over at Murphy and waved one hand in her direction. "And in front of Murphy Brown, of all people. It's not a good idea to let her know too much of anything."

Murphy crossed her arms and smirked. "Oh, come on, Miles. Are you still mad at me for that little prank?"

Miles frowned. "Do you know what she did during the last holiday? She had all the calendars changed to Jewish years, even on the computers. The _whole _office went around saying, 'Shalom' for about a week!"

"You never could take a joke," Millie chided with raised eyebrows.

"A joke is a joke," he persisted, "but when you go out in the parking lot and find a giant yalmucha on the top of your car, that's when it goes too far!" He pointed a finger at Murphy. "Do you have any idea what it's like to drive through rush-hour traffic while people play 'Hava Nagila' with their car horns?"

Murphy winked and stood up. "Well I think I'd better get back to work before Miles drags up the Easter incident. Nice to have met you, Millie."

Millie leaned forward and shook hands with Murphy. "It was nice to meet you, too."

Miles sunk back against his pillow. "Don't think that I forgot about the brisk you gave the Easter Bunny!" he shouted to Murphy's retreating figure.

Millie watched as Murphy shot an amused glance over her shoulder and slipped out the doorway, then she looked at Miles with her eyebrows raised. "They gave a rabbit a brisk?"

"Well, it was a stuffed rabbit. They put a huge band-aid between his legs and set him on my desk with a note that said, 'Congratulations on a successful snipping.' The next day I got a postcard from a vet that said it was time for Hoppy to get his shots."

Millie crossed her legs and laughed. "Oh, that's good."

"It's not funny. Have you ever tried to cancel an appointment for a stuffed animal?"

"Can't say that I have."

Despite his obvious irritation, a low chuckle escaped Miles. "We're always doing things like that to each other, though."

"It sounds like fun."

"It is, I guess." He paused and gave Millie a curious look. "So you felt my pain? Is that why you're here?"

"Well, I expected to find you dying of stomach cancer or something."

"It was that strong," he marveled. "Wow. Honestly, if I though you would pick up on it, I would've called you."

"Yea. Sure."

Without meeting her gaze, Miles patted her hand. "How long will you be in town?"

"Well, I took a week off work. But since you're okay, I suppose I might as well go back tomorrow."

"Don't leave yet," he said quickly. He swallowed and reached out to touch her shoulder. "Please. I'd like for you to stay a couple of days. I… I miss you, Millie. I really do."

"If I hadn't been watching the credits on 'FYI,'" she replied in a bitter tone, "I wouldn't even know where you were these days. Now, with the way that Mom and Dad were, I can understand not saying anything. But with me?" She shook her head and frowned. "You had no reason to walk out and leave me alone like that."

Miles looked around. " Let's not get into this now."

"Why not?" she asked in a grumpy voice.

"Because I can tell that you're tired. Probably haven't slept in a couple of days. Where are you staying?"

She shrugged. "I just got into town. Haven't found a hotel yet."

"Well, there's no need to." He pointed over to the closet in the corner. "Get my keys out of my jacket and go back to my apartment. You can stay with me as long as you'd like. I should be out of here in a day or two, and then I can start getting my life back on track."

_"Shhh…"_

It took Millie's soothing voice to pull Miles back to consciousness. The nightmare faded quickly as soon as he had his eyes open again. He no longer found himself re-living that moment of the attack, and instead, he awoke in his own bedroom, the sheets damp from the night sweat of his terror. He instinctively reached for his sister's hand and the cool touch of her skin, clasped in his hot and sweaty grip, helped to still the scream in his throat.

"What time is it?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

"A little after six o'clock," she responded in a sleepy voice.

His eyebrows came together and he glanced at the orange glow that seeped in through the closed curtains. "In the morning?"

"No, at night."

Miles drew a shaky hand over his damp forehead and let out a weak whistle.

"Wow. It seems like I've been asleep longer than that." He pushed the sheet off his body and glanced down at his bruised and bandaged torso. Millie half-turned and looked at his body in disbelief, then reached over and turned on the lamp by his bedside.

"Man," she mumbled as she ran her hands over the bandages. "He really did a number on you, huh?" Her fingertips stroked the shoulder bandage, then she rubbed at her own right shoulder. "Barely noticed that. The stomach pains were ten times worse."

"Yea, I know. I was there."

Miles gave her a playful swat, his eyes squinted against the light, then he looked back down at the bandage across his stomach. He pointed at the stains that had seeped through. "You might want to leave. I've, ah, got to change this thing now."

"Can I help?"

He shrugged. "If you want. It's pretty disgusting, though." He winced as Millie tugged at the surgical tape on the soiled bandage against his midsection.

"Easy," he hissed through his teeth.

She removed the bandage with swift, sure tugs and tossed it into the nearby trash can, then studied the stitched-up knife wound in his stomach with disbelief.

"That must be deep," she breathed.

He pointed to the stitches in his stomach. "How does it feel to you?"

"It feels like I'm digesting glass. Thanks for asking." She started to reach for the new bandages stacked on the bedside table, then shook her head. "It's been a few days, brother. You need a sponge bath in the worst way, I'm telling you."

"Oh, come on…"

"Don't 'oh, come on' me. I came here to take care of you, and damn it, I'm going to do it right. I'm your sister, for crying out loud. You think that I haven't seen you in the buff before?"

Miles blushed. "Yea, but… that was years ago!"

"Do you want to sit here in your own stink? I've got no problem with letting you do that, bud."

He let out a frustrated sigh. "Fine, fine. I'm not going to argue with you," he muttered.

She gave a firm nod and patted him on the leg as she walked away. As he listened to the water running in the bathroom, Miles slid his pajama bottoms off of his hips and, with some effort, managed to kick them down his legs and onto the floor. He looked down at himself with some embarrassment, then pulled the sheet back over his hips.

Millie returned and set a small pail of soapy water onto the floor, perched herself on the edge of the bed, then pulled a wet washcloth out of the pail and wrung it out. Miles blinked rapidly as he watched her yank the sheet down to the end of the bed, one hand over his bandaged left ankle. She studiously ignored his nudity and pointed at his feet.

"I'm going to take off the brace," she warned him. She pulled the Velcro-and-plastic invention away from his foot and studied his swollen limb. "Does this hurt?" she asked.

He closed his eyes. The pain of the ankle sprain didn't really compare to the humiliation he felt at being bathed like a baby; he hadn't been naked in front of her since before puberty.

"It hurts a little," Miles admitted.

"Sorry."

With careful strokes, Millie applied the warm washcloth to his foot, re-fastened the ankle brace, then washed his other foot. She folded the washcloth and cleaned his legs, taking care not to press down on the large bruise across his shin.

"I felt that," she mumbled to herself.

Miles let out a nervous swallow as she moved up his legs, but with a cynical wink, she skipped his privates.

"I think you can clean this up by yourself," she said with a smirk.

"Yea. Thanks."

Her humor disappeared again as she wrung out the washcloth and let it sit in the water while she eased Miles into a sitting position and carefully removed the soiled shoulder bandage, then washed his torso.

"Time for the sling, I think," she muttered. "Unless you want me to bind you back up again?"

"No, no. That's fine. I don't need the mummy treatment any more. It's much better than it was."

After she cleaned his chest, neck and face, Millie handed him the washcloth and discreetly turned away while he finished the job. She then took the pail back into the bathroom and dumped the water, returning with a dry towel, clean bandages, cotton balls and a bottle of peroxide.

Miles settled back down onto his pillows and watched in silence as Millie slowly cleaned the neatly-stitched the knife wound with small, gentle strokes, then dried his stomach and applied a new bandage. Before she could begin to dry the rest of him off, however, Miles reached over and took her hand.

"Millie," he said in a soft voice, "I'm sorry."

"For what? Getting stabbed?" She flashed him a grin. "Like you could help it?"

"No. I'm… sorry for a lot of things. A lot of things that I've never told you that I'm sorry for, but I probably should have said so a long time ago," he said in a rush of words. He stopped and took in a breath. "I'm sorry that you feel things like this, when I never feel anything that happens to you."

Millie freed her hand from his and patted the towel around his bruised shoulder. "It's something that we can't help, Miles," she said in a low voice, unable to look at him. "It's just how we were born. I can't help the way that I am… any more than you can. I understood that years ago. You never tried to."

He rubbed one hand over his face in frustration. His twin would always be an extension of himself, and yet he'd denied her existence in so many ways, even though she'd never done anything wrong to him. She had been the only one that had never argued with him or laughed at him, like everyone else had at one time or another, even his brother. Not even after he'd—

_ Deserted her. That's what you did._ He winced at the thought, but the merciless words continued to flow through his mind. _ No words or even a goodbye to her. You just walked out of her life._

Only the slightest stab of guilt accompanied the thought, however. Mostly, he felt filled with a sense of wonder for his sister. Millie had always been a much more understanding and accepting person than her hotheaded twin brother. If their current situation had been reversed and she had been injured, he wondered whether or not he would have gone to her. He doubted it, and he hated himself a little for that.

Miles opened his mouth. He wanted to continue, to try and make restitution for every painful word and deed he'd ever done to his twin, but he didn't know how to reach out to her, how to apologize for something that had been set in their patterns since birth. Instead, the conversation went in a different direction.

"You never told me," he heard himself say. "What happened with Danny Perkins? You're not married any more?"

Millie looked up with a pained expression.

"No," she admitted with a sigh. "We wanted different things. I wanted a husband. Turns out, so did he." She shrugged and managed a crooked smile. "My dating instincts were never that good, you know."

"So he—"

"Ran off with another man," she cut him off. "Yea. Ten months ago. Thanks for asking."

Millie stood up and balled the bath towel up in her hands. "And thanks for being there," she added as she walked out of the bedroom.

Miles winced. Even though the words stung, he didn't detect any particular anger in her voice, only the usual tone of tired resignation that she'd always used with him.

_ "…break-in at your apartment…"_

_ "Your sister has been…"_

_ "…hospital, where she…"_

_ "…Miles, are you…"_

Time had ceased to matter for Miles.

What should have been a normal day back at work had, once again, become a nightmare in his life. The words and moments of everything around him all flowed together—a potpourri of images filled with both the familiar and unfamiliar. Maybe a half-hour had passed since he'd gotten the news… maybe an hour, or even two… but Miles couldn't concentrate onto the situation until he stood in the Intensive Care Unit of the hospital. The words of a strange policeman struck him and brought the situation home.

"We just need confirmation. Is this your sister, Mr. Silverberg?"

The police officer repeated the question patiently with sympathy in his voice, but Miles found that he could not respond. He stared at the clean white tile floor at his feet, unable to acknowledge the officer's words with more than a slight nod.

"It's her," Miles heard Murphy Brown said behind him.

Miles heard the policeman scribble something down, then he gave Murphy a faint "Thank you" before he left the room.

Murphy's cool hand rested against his shoulder. "Do you want to be alone with her?"

Miles made himself nod again. Murphy's hand squeezed his shoulder, and she left the room.

Even before the door hissed shut, Miles regretted his mute response. The steady hum of electricity from the hospital equipment seemed to grow louder and more urgent. He didn't want to be alone with the broken shell of the person in front of him.

Finally, Miles managed to focus on an orange plastic chair, and he walk towards it with slow, reluctant steps. He settled down on the edge of the chair, then looked up at Millie's pale face.

She had been washed off in the Emergency Room, but not very well—around the numerous clear plastic tubes, dried blood still caked the inside of her nose, her ears and the edge of her mouth. Several bruises had begun to appear on her chin and below her eyes, and he reached out to stroke an inch-long cut, neatly sutured with black thread, along her cheek.

Miles started to reach for her hands, but her left arm had been broken in three places and now rested in a cast up to her shoulder. Her right hand had an assortment of I.V. needles attached to the top of it, and a brace encircled her broken right wrist. He ran his fingertips over her bandaged head, and noticed with a sharp pain of dismay that a drainage tube ran out of the other side, almost invisible from his position. As he looked over the bulky bandages that covered the rest of her body, his attention focused on her chest as he realized that she could no longer take her own breaths. The steady hiss of the machine that took them for her made him tremble with fear.

The break-in at his apartment occurred less than an hour after he'd left for his first day back at work. There had been no time to go to the apartment and see what damage had been done, nor did he find himself at all concerned with his personal property. Not after what the bastards had done to his sister. He deliberately forced away the sketchy but graphic details that had been related to him by several different police officers. He couldn't handle that kind of information. Instead, his thoughts swam back to the first words he'd heard regarding Millie's condition: _it's a matter of time now_, the doctor said. He'd offered no hope for Miles to cling to, gave no optimistic statements like "we expect her to pull through this" or "it will take some time, but she'll be fine."

Millie would _not _be fine. Ever. She would not regain consciousness and there would be no final goodbyes between the two of them. How she had even made it out of surgery had baffled the doctors.

Miles leaned forward and put his hands over his face. He squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled into his palms, his mind turned inward, trying to feel… something…

He felt nothing. His twin, who had been able to sense everything that ever happened to her brother, from a bee sting to a broken limb, did not seem to exist inside of him. He reached out to touch his sister again, only to find that his fingertips rested on some ligature marks across the top of her right arm. Rope burns. From when they'd tied her to a chair and beat her, and then…

With clumsy feet that didn't want to obey his commands, Miles forced himself up and out of the room. He couldn't be there any longer. Everything smelled of blood.

Halfway down the hall, a bizarre draining sensation crept up on him. He leaned against the wall with his head down and his arms limp by his sides as he felt his breathing become shallow. The hallway swam around him as he sank to his knees, his hands splayed out in front of him to keep him from falling onto his face. Sharp pain shot out from his damaged shoulder muscle, coupled with a protest from the stomach wound, but he barely noticed them. An empty feeling that suddenly filled his entire being erased it all.

Hands rested on his shoulder, and Miles heard a familiar voice called his name. After a moment, he lifted his head and found himself staring at the face of Murphy Brown.

"I'm all right," he managed to tell her in a weak tone. He forced himself to his feet. "It's not... it's not me."

"Miles, maybe you should sit down. You—"

His gaze darted around him, focusing on nothing in particular. "Millie's dead," he interrupted.

Murphy fell silent, and she lifted her head as she noticed a series of electronic beeps from down the hall. Several nurses and a doctor rushed toward the alarm, but Murphy could see from their movements that they did not seem to be in a rush to help this particular patient in distress.

"Miles, I'm so sorry…" she began, but words failed her.

She put her arms around his shoulders and hugged her to him, a gesture that Miles found himself unable to respond to at first. With a feeling of dumb stupor, he recognized the fact that he'd finally felt some kind of connection with his twin that he'd never experienced before.

_Too late_, his mind told him.

Miles closed his eyes and swayed in Murphy's arms. If anyone else had tried to comfort him at that moment, Miles would have rejected their help. Millie hadn't been in town for anyone to meet her and to know what kind of a person that Miles had just lost… but Murphy knew her. Perhaps, most important of all, Murphy understood.

Miles Silverberg felt something hitch inside him, and his wall of control broke down. He pressed his head against her shoulder, and he began to cry.


End file.
